


Age to Age

by faliceplease



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-29 16:57:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15077630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faliceplease/pseuds/faliceplease
Summary: I wrote this for my writing class.





	Age to Age

Six years old, running wild, running free. They had no cares in the world other than who would tend to their scraped knees, and which flavoured juice box they'd end up with at morning tea. She was the girl with the wild untamed hair. He was the boy never seen without cuts and bruises. They weren't friends until she punched him on the playground, proving that girls could hit just as hard as any of the boys. He respected that, even before he learnt how to tie his own laces. Her bunnies and her trees made no sense to him, and even when they did, he still let her teach him. He walked her home from school despite living on another block, kicking stones and telling tall stories. She called him a king, he called her a queen and they would go on adventures around the neighbourhood until the streetlights came on, before they scurried back home for dinner.  
Nine years old, she wants to be a princess, he thought she should be a pirate. Turned out she could be both. Their neighbourhood adventures never ended. They got up to no good more often than not. The first time she stole something was on her birthday, walked straight out of the corner store with a stick of gum in her sock. He said it didn’t count as stealing since it wasn’t a whole packet, so she thumped him and that shut him up completely. He came to school with bigger bruises, she asked and he shrugged his shoulders. She didn’t mention it again. 

Ten years old, girls giggled about him in the hallways, passed notes in the classroom. He didn’t understand why and he didn’t want to. She hated those girls, hated the giggles and the coos. She just wanted them to pipe down and leave them both alone. He still climbed the playground with her at lunch, still kicked a ball around her as she read under the trees. Sometimes he would even lie down beside her, stare up at the clouds to try and find faces, or stories. He didn't read much but sometimes she would read her words aloud and he saw pictures in his mind. It was just like the movies, only better because of her. 

Eleven years old, she posts magazine clippings on her walls, dreaming of becoming a writer, to leave the slums of her hometown. He’s learning to play the guitar but he can’t seem to get it right. He never gets anything right. She hums along to his strumming, telling him he’s doing okay. He likes the attention; she likes to write lyrics across his sneakers and come up with dreams of starting a band and travelling the world together. 

Thirteen years old, she came back from spending the summer with her aunt. She looked the same apart from the breasts that poked out of her chest. He noticed, of course, he had. She told him she kissed a boy, he told her he didn't care. They both lied. He made a new friend in her absence. He wasn't poor like they were. He didn't seem to mind. She dyed her hair blonde, it looked a mess, but she liked it. He didn't tease her even though he wanted to. She was changing, and he was trying to catch up.  
Fifteen years old, his father kicked him out, she snuck him into her room after dark, and he’d leave before sunrise. She begged him to teach her how to drive. He gave her lessons in the driveway with her mother's wagon at their disposal. She picked it up quickly; he wished she'd pretend she didn't. He liked the way she wore her hair. She liked that he now had to shave. He was on the football team, she didn't make the cheer team. She watched his games from the bleachers alone, he always found her in the crowd. He asked her to be his girlfriend, she replied, I thought you’d never ask. Their first kiss was like a drug, one would never be enough. 

Sixteen years old they shared their first joint. She liked the way it felt to be floating; he liked feeling like he was finally alive. They stole a Toyota and took off out of school. He promised ‘only the tip’ until it wasn’t and at that point, she didn’t care. She was his, he was hers. She was grounded for a month; he was still sneaking in at night. She promised she’d never love anyone more, he promised he’d never love another at all. Their friends knew it was special, but they could see something they couldn’t, there had to be some kind of catch, love didn’t happen as easy as that. 

Seventeen years old, he switched denim for leather, got in with the wrong crowd. She was left in the dark at the start, feeling him step one foot out the door. He didn’t want her in his world; she couldn’t imagine one without him. She toyed with danger, meeting him in the middle. They were the King and Queen of the wrong kind of scene, balancing a life of football and school newspapers, with violence and life-threatening danger. He kept her safe, but he knew she didn’t need him to.  
Eighteen years old, they’ve gone their separate ways. She was arrested, he wasn’t there. She met a boy who was safe, wasn’t broken, and was tame. He watched from the sidelines as a new love blossomed, the girl his heart belonged to was with another, holding his hand, giving away her love. He was jealous; he was reckless and all but forgotten. A night of passion reunited the two, but she told him it could never happen again, and it didn’t. He heard the new couple fighting, heard them break apart. She was gone before long, disappeared into the night. 

Twenty years old, he’s back in town after the army. She’s marrying the other guy; he’s drinking away his sorrows. She shows up at the bar, cold feet, she asks him for a reason to stay with him instead. He doesn’t have one. She leaves in her wedding gown, he kicks himself for months. She seems happy but he hoped she wasn’t.  
Twenty-five years old, she has a baby on the way. Their two worlds couldn’t be further apart. He sleeps around; she sleeps safe and sound in that big house on the North. She’s in the neighbourhood watch now; he’s on the neighbourhood watch list. She switched from leather to pastels; he’s waking up in random motels. He’s miserable, she has it all. He meets a woman who couldn’t be any different to her if she tried. 

Thirty years old, he had a shotgun wedding and now a toddler on his lap. She takes her girls to ballet; he leaves his son in the car while he’s in the bar. He’s lazy, she’s efficient. He thinks about what was, she pretends it never happened. It’s easier to move on than to face the pain of what no longer was. She fights with her husband behind closed doors, but to the world, she’s in the perfect family. In her quiet moments, she lets herself wonder what could have been before she shuts herself out of those troublesome thoughts. Her lover, her best friend, he wasn’t anything to her anymore. 

Forty years old, she’s unhappily married, still living in that great big house with a husband who doesn’t understand her pain. He’s living in a trailer, wife left him behind with only a bottle to replace her. They see each other every so often. He’s been in and out of prison; she’s been in and out of Pilates. She was surprised when her daughter brought home the son of his boy, the pair were quick to fall in love and it scared her so. She forbade her daughter’s involvement, to no fault of the teen’s own. She confronted the man she once loved with her whole heart. He didn’t see her problem. It was all deep in their past. She doesn’t think about the child she sent away, the night she disappeared without warning, she definitely doesn’t think about it when she sees him around town, or when his boy is in her house. She tries to keep it all buried away but the thoughts keep her tossing and turning all night long.  
Forty-five years old, her best-kept secret comes to light. There’s screaming and crying, most of it her own. Her husband leaves her; she’s told it’s for time to think. She can’t handle dealing with it alone. It’s an old wound made fresh again, made worse when she finally told him the truth. He cried. She cried harder. Their child was somewhere out in the world and they had no idea where to begin looking, but they both agreed to try. 

Fifty years old, she’s been divorced for a couple years, still living in the great big house, and she’s thinking about what could have been. Her daughter is getting married, to his son of all people. She’s been to choose the cake, the dresses, and the venue. He’s been left out of most of the plans, which works well in her favour. They hadn’t stepped foot in the same room in a very long time. The rehearsal dinner is when that changed. He told her she looked lovely, she told him she was surprised he’d shown up. He was still an alcoholic, one who has been sober for a long time, that’s what he insisted in response to her words. Their ex-partners watched on as she broke into a smile. Their son walked over, greeting them both, reminding them of the hope that was once lost between them, a hope that sparked inside them once more.  
Sixty years old, he poured her tea and woke her with kisses. Their room had been covered in photographs of grandbabies, memories they’d shared in the last ten years. She only wished that she could have filled it with memories of the last 54 instead.

Seventy-five years old, they’re celebrating their granddaughter’s graduation. She’s knitted him sweaters for all occasions, he’s built her a box for all of her most sacred possessions. They liked to spend every chance they could be surrounded by their family, the one family they shared together. They’d been through it all, births, christenings, birthdays, softball games, piano recitals, you name it and they had been there. 

They’re sat hand in hand, watching as their little girl walks across the stage and is handed her diploma. She took a dozen snapshots on her phone only to realise the camera had been focused on them the whole time. He laughed and laughed, she told him it wasn’t funny, until suddenly to her, it was. They shared the backseat on the ride home to the party. His son told them to stop canoodling, she laughed until her stomach ached. 

He fed her cake. She took photos of him on purpose this time. He’s smiling, she felt so warm inside. They were head over heels in love, the way they were supposed to be from the start. They were surrounded by their family, just like they often were. Their eldest son was there with his husband, their grandchildren were in every corner as they mingled with their own friends. It was an intimate gathering, one that ended with a surprise wedding of sorts. He promised to love her forever, she promised she wouldn’t stop even if she knew how to. There were no rings, no one there to officiate, but to them, it counted, and to their family, it had been a long time coming. They shared a kiss in front of everyone they loved, wanting to cherish every second they had left together. 

She sat on the floor of her elderly mother's bedroom. Boxes of memories and belongings surrounded her. Ninety years old. That's how old her mother was when she passed away, arms wrapped around her lover's middle. He died the same night. She couldn't explain how it happened other than fate. Two hearts had been beating as one for so long, only to give out at the same time. That was love and she knew it. Her heart beat just a little faster each time she turned another page of her mother's diary. The love that she denied herself for so long was still littered across the pages for years and years of old entries. She picked up a pencil and marked her favourite passages. She thought about her own husband, whom she loved with her whole heart. The memories and the life they had spent together had started when she was only sixteen. It felt just as real as her mother's words were describing, but perhaps it wasn't as intense as the feelings that had been kept hidden for so long, trapped by shackles of a loveless marriage, a life of deceit and pain. She wished she knew the woman that was as honest as each of the pages suggested. The woman with the bleeding heart. 

She found herself wishing that the world could hear about this kind of intense and true love. She told him how she felt over dinner, her husband, the son of the man her mother loved so purely. He would know what to do. They were both writers, both appreciated the written word, the written truth for that matter. His idea might as well have been her own since they started brainstorming plans right away to gift the world of the unique and wonderful story of a six-year-old girl with scraped knees, and the boy she punched in the face. The boy who learnt guitar, and the girl who scribbled lyrics across his sneakers. They wrote the story of the teen lovers who created a baby in the back of a wagon. The story of the ex lovers who had to watch their children fall madly in love, wishing they had their own happy ending. The pages filled and she was proud of what they created. The story of how they became who they were, and why everything tragic somehow happened for a reason. It gave hope that love would always find a way, and it had in this case. They were growing old themselves, so this story wasn't for them. It was for their children, and their grandchildren, for the world to believe in love.


End file.
